


An Empty Chair

by onlyclueingforlooks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyclueingforlooks/pseuds/onlyclueingforlooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home to an empty flat after John's wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Empty Chair

The knocker was crooked.

That was the first thing that Sherlock noticed upon returning to 221B Baker Street all too early in the evening after the wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan.  _No, not Mary Morstan,_ he thought.  _Mary Watson._ For she and John were now all the more connected. Domestic bliss.

Yet this new connection, Sherlock had earlier realized, may well replace the old ones. Mrs. Hudson had said that marriage changed things, changed people. As the wedding night had worn on, Sherlock had found himself thinking more and more strongly that she'd been right. As John had danced with Mary, he'd paid no attention to his best man. His eyes had been fixed on his wife, and Sherlock himself had nearly felt the wonder in John's gaze from across the room. True enough, that look of wonder had once been fixed on  _him_. _Yes_ , Sherlock decided.  _Things have shifted, haven't they?_

The only thing that seemed familiar on this night, truly, was the door knocker. It was left the way that John always left it, stuck just off-center to the right.

Sherlock didn't want to disturb it; it felt blasphemous to do so. This was  _John_ \--a part of him, at least--and Sherlock was not ready to let go of what had honestly been the very best of times. Instead, he grabbed hold of the handle and swung open the door.

The flat had the same musty smell as always: old papers, books, body parts for various experiments. The stairs groaned emptily under Sherlock's weight. He passed lightly through the doorway and looked across at the mantle, the couch, the armchairs. The silence was deafening. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in, pressing his hand against the door frame for support. This seemed far more final than he had first imagined. So much effort and planning had gone into the wedding in this flat that it had almost seemed like John still lived at 221B. It had been easy, for a while, to simply forget. But that was no longer an option for the world's only consulting detective, who never truly forgot anything.

Nothing of John was worth deleting. And it was the holding on, Sherlock suspected, that made the quiet all the more painful.  _Nothing to be done about that._

When Sherlock was younger, people often discussed this strange entity of  _love_. Love, according to the world, was supposed to be beautiful. It was supposed to be joyful, and it was supposed to spread that joy to others who encountered it in full bloom.

It was not supposed to be painful. Nothing was supposed to hurt quite like this. And the love of others was not meant to kill you softly from the inside out; it was this nameless pain that tormented Sherlock as he watched John's first dance. It was this pain of love that had forced him from the wedding to the flat by way of the tube, for he could not take a taxi without seeing a phantom John seated next to him.

Now, the flat was still. Sherlock Holmes was alone. It seemed hard to believe that just a few years ago, he had known no other concept but "alone." The silence had been comforting. He had been at peace in himself and content in keeping company with only his mind.

There was no comfort in silence on this night. Sherlock's mind was not a companion but an antagonist that wrought only pain, for the only thing that it brought him were memories of his best friend, companion, flatmate, colleague, love. Thinking, to Sherlock, was simply flipping through the wrinkled pages of an old photo album. He saw the smiling faces and recognized the scenes that made a movie in his mind. The memories now seemed so distant, but the emotions were all too close.

Sherlock removed his hand from the door frame and walked to John's armchair. He laid a single finger on it and traced the curve of the fabric. It even smelled like John. Faintly, but it was there.  _Everything_ of John's was there. Everything, that was, except for John himself.

Sherlock didn't cry often. Not at movies, not at books. Not when faced with death or with life. Yet John Watson was something else entirely. He was something that Sherlock Holmes had never thought he would find, yet all the same, he was something that Sherlock had lost all too soon.

Sherlock collapsed into the armchair and wept.

He cried for all the things that once were and all the things that could never be. He sobbed as he'd never sobbed before; he cried more than he thought he knew how. The cushion that had once supported John's back and head was now stained with Sherlock's tears, which ran like rain from his eyes onto the chair and carpet below.

It was then that he heard a noise.

A dull thud.

A knocking.

Sherlock wiped the plentiful tears from his cheek and rose from the chair. He walked down the stairs, hardly conscious of their insufferable creaking, took a breath, and swung open the door.

There was John Watson. His tie was untucked, his jacket unbuttoned. His gaze was turned down at his feet, which shifted uneasily from left to right. He looked a beautiful wreck.

John raised his eyes to Sherlock's and spoke.

"You, Sherlock Holmes..."

He sighed.

"Are an egotistical, self-assured smart arse. And to top that..."

John looked down at Sherlock's feet and slowly lifted his gaze, finally meeting Sherlock's eyes in a mixture of wonder and exasperation.

"The only time that you are  _not_ those things just happens to be the time when someone else's emotions are on the line along with your own."

Sherlock looked confusedly at John for a moment.

"What I mean to say is, I love you. Ardently and desperately."

And for the first time in what seemed like centuries, Sherlock smiled. He reached out his hand. "Would you like to come in?"

John took it, interweaving Sherlock's fingers with his own. "God, yes."

 


End file.
